After All
by WaterSpirit1
Summary: You sold your soul and living your pathetically lonely life, began to wonder if it was worth it. But then one night he turned up at your door and you knew it was worth it after all, because you'd never be alone again. Hannacentric, H/... friendship.


Disclaimer: I do not own HINABN, the lovely Tessa Stone does

**After All**

**

* * *

**

You sold your soul, Hanna Falk Cross. To keep living, breathing, using your magic for just that little bit longer, you sold it to them without hesitation. And the receipt is crudely engraved across your chest; a reminder that, though it may be yours for now, one day they will come to claim it. Forever. But until then, you decided to live each day like every last second counted and, for you, they did (you could hear them ticking away, far too quickly). So you bounded along through life, full of joy and staples.

Only Doc, who stitched you up afterwards with a wary eye, has any clue (and barely at that) as to why you are a human with a beating heart who smells like death. Because death is always lingering over you, waiting, is it not? When anyone asks, you shy away from your past and change the subject because you can't bear to let them know. You can't even tell _him_, your most trusted friend and constant companion. You lock it all away inside instead and pretend, with a smile, that it's all okay, that it doesn't hurt. You ignore the dread settling in to your stomach at the thought that they will come soon and snatch this all away from you.

But it wasn't always like this. For awhile, you didn't really care if they came or not, because (and it sickens you now to think of it) you wondered if it was worth it. Yes, you loved you job as a paranormal investigator so much it hurt to breathe, but was that all there was to your life? It was nearly always slow, which meant you had to work at the department store too and still only just managed to scrape together the rent, and usually ended with your being scolded by Worth as he patched up yet another supernatural wound you had incurred. Because, try as you might to be helpful and suave, you tended to make a mess of things most of the time. You needed a partner desperately, the job was too hard to do alone, but who would willingly put themselves into this dubious line of work_ and_ you erratic company? No one with half a brain, really. The latter problem also probably explained why you were always alone and had no friends save for Worth and his supplier, Lamont. And let's face it, they're not exactly sociable, are they? Trudging home from your crummy store job each day to your tiny, empty apartment, which dripped and creaked and was freezing cold, only to find that they'd cut off the electricity or the water…again –standing there in the doorway, a treacherous little voice inside your head would ask you if it was worth it. And, to be honest Hanna, you didn't know if it was.

Then one night, _he _showed up at your door with his striped scarf and your business card in hand and it all changed. He was quickly followed that night by a disgruntled and somewhat dishevelled Conrad who, in turn, was followed by Toni and Vesser and Ples until suddenly you were surrounded by friends as quirky and desperately alone (excepting of course Toni) as you. _'I really don't know where else to go' _he had said that night and perhaps it was true of all of you. Where else was there to go when such strange, unforeseeable circumstances had drawn you all together? But now there was a thread that connected you to each of them, and you couldn't have been happier. You had a partner in crime, you had friends – people who actually cared about you, and not just in the weird, offhand way that Worth did – and you had what felt close to a family.

But best of all, now you always come home to him.

You'd both been alone so long but it seemed that you would never be alone again, having now a steadfast friend who greeted you every night when you came home from work with a small smile and a plate of food, ready to be regaled by your funny stories of the day. Who accompanied you on each case and would throw himself in danger's path if it would save you. Who sat beside you at night, calmly reading or folding paper cranes or sewing shredded clothes back together, just as you would sew his limbs back on for him. Who would wake you from your nightmares with a firm hand on your shoulder and a quiet 'Hanna?' and who, even if he went out wandering all night, would always be back in time to make you breakfast. And he said he was happy to do all this, as a way of thanking you for taking him in and befriending him when most other people would have simply screamed and slammed the door shut. But really you know that it is _you_ who should be grateful to _him_, and you always are.

And now you're trudging home once more from the worst day at work ever (at least you think so) through the rain because you forgot your umbrella this morning because you were running late for the train because you couldn't find you other shoe no matter how hard the both of you looked (how did you manage to leave it in the kitchen cupboard?). With a sigh you ascend the stairs slowly, exhaustion making your feet feel like lead and every step is a struggle, until Mrs Blarney sticks her head out the door, hassling you for rent, and you sprint the rest of the way to avoid her insinuation that having your roommate for one night would be payment enough. The six on the door swings haplessly down into a nine no matter how many times you fix it, and as you scrounge around in your bag for keys, you wonder if it confuses clients who come looking for your 'office'. Suddenly the neighbour's door is thrown open violently and you jump slightly as a man stumbles out into the dank corridor. A woman screams something incomprehensible, the door slams in his face, and he starts drunkenly yelling and banging his fists against it. He turns to regard you and with an alarmed grimace you slip inside and close the door firmly behind you as he yells 'whadda _you_ want, punk!' You lean against the door heavily, letting your bag fall to the floor. For a moment, it is like old times and as you close your eyes, you forget.

"Are you alright?" a soft voice asks and you look up with a start.

And there he is, sitting at the (now) somewhat tidy table with a paper crane before him, a toasted cheese sandwich opposite and a concerned look on his face. The whole place is light and warm and smells delicious and you go weak at the knees. You think you're going to laugh at the absurd brilliance of it all, or at least smile, but instead you burst into tears without really knowing why. Why does it feel so much lighter, as if someone has lifted a burden that was crushing you slowly? And you can't see it because your hands are covering your face, trying to hide it, trying to hold the broken sobs in, but you can feel his arms pulling you into a hug.

"What's wrong?" he asks but you can't answer. You're trying to breathe even as you make the front of his shirt damp. He may be dead cold but the contact, the thought, is no less caring.

"N-nothing," you stutter out eventually with a big grin, "I'm just…happy. Pathetic, huh?"

He quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at you but you can't tell him why. You can't tell him that you're happy because you know now that it really was worth it. They could come for you today, tomorrow or next week to claim what is rightly theirs and it wouldn't matter. Because you have friends, a strange sort of mishap family, and a zombie who lets you call him every obscure name under the sun since he knows it's because you care. You're happy and you're not alone.

But you can't tell him this (maybe one day?) so instead you smile, wiping your eyes with your sleeve before enthusiastically bounding over to the table, once more yourself – full of joy and staples. "Oh man, Galahad, this looks so tasty! And I'm starving. Have I told you today that you're totally awesome?"

"This morning actually, when I made pancakes," he says, sitting across from you with that complacently content look, and not just a little touch of sarcasm in his monotone voice.

"Haha, oh yeah. Well, it's still true. Oh Raphael, I have to tell you about this lady at work today. It was soooo funny. Hey, what number crane is that?" you interrupt your own rambling to point at the small object, taking a large mouthful of food at the same time.

"Three hundred and thirty-seven," he replies with a small smile (wow, Connie better start smiling some more if he's going to catch up) that is almost proud.

"Whoa, we're like totally getting there! Soon, Victor, it'll be nine hundred and ninety-nine," you exclaim excitedly. But he looks at you with those perceptive glowing eyes and you know that you haven't escaped entirely from questioning about the earlier outburst. But you dismiss his concern with a wave of your hand, saying, "Don't worry, Socrates, everything's alright."

Because it is, after all.

.

.

.

For now.

* * *

A/N:  
Must. Not. Obsess. Over. HINABN. But I can't help it; best web comic ever!  
This was mostly an experimental style of writing so let me know if it works or doesn't. Any feedback is useful! Also, shortest thing I've written in ages. Or possibly ever. hope you like it!


End file.
